Blitzkrieg
by dutchrub
Summary: AU future where Haruhi and Mori are both lawyers working at the same firm. After a night out with the firm, everything changes. Two parts.


**Blitzkrieg**

**By: Aurorarose13**

_A/N: Blitzkrieg: a sudden, swift, large-scale offensive intended to win a quick victory._

_I had intended this piece to be a oneshot, but, as writing goes, it quickly got out of hand. I couldn't stop myself, but I refused to do a multi-chapter for fear of abandoning it. Because of the length, in the end, I decided to split it into two parts for readability's sake. Long read ahead, so enjoy!_

_This story is set in a slight AU future where Haruhi and Mori are both lawyers working at the same firm. Rated M for a big, ol' fat lemon and language._

* * *

**Part One – Battle Lines**

"So how about it, Fujioka? You in?"

Inaba Naoko braced both hands against Haruhi's desk and leaned forward so that her already-narrowed eyes could better drill through the last of her coworker's defenses. It didn't seem to be working.

Haruhi offered an apologetic smile. "I appreciate the invite, but—"

"If you even say you've got an important case you're working on, I'm going to strangle you."

Haruhi blinked. "That's a little extreme, don't you think?"

"Hardly," the raven-haired woman volleyed back as she crossed her arms over her chest. "You've blown off every Friday invite in the last two years."

"And with all this work," Haruhi's hand swept demonstratively over her cluttered desk, "I'll have to blow you off for another two."

Naoko wrapped one hand around her own throat and punctuated the gesture with an emphatic gag. "Give me a break. Life can't be all about work. You know, Yamanaka in Billing has been begging me to get you to come out with us for weeks. Weeks, woman."

Haruhi's brow furrowed. "Yamaha?"

"God, Fujioka, you are completely hopeless. If I have to endure one more pathetic puppy dog look from Yamanaka, I'll seriously vomit—vomit all over _your_ desk because it will be _your_ fault."

"How are you a corporate lawyer when you're this prone to hyperbole?" Haruhi groaned.

"Hyperbole? Nah, I will sign a contract guaranteeing it, if you want me to. Just get me a pen." Naoko groped across the desk to seal the deal.

Haruhi rolled her enormous eyes so that her friend could truly appreciate her exasperation, and as she did, she caught sight of another coworker and friend.

Across the sea of tidy cubicles, a familiar face of quiet muscle and a striking jaw line sat ramrod straight in his desk chair, his eyes fixed firmly on his laptop and his fingers clattering away purposefully over the keyboard. His hair was a little longer than it had always been, just grazing the tops of his ears, but it was no less wild despite his admirable attempts to tame his unruly locks. His perfectly pressed gray suit heightened the unusual steely tint in his eyes and galvanized the aura of strength that his ever-toned physique naturally exuded. He was older, stronger, handsomer, but his tie was still perennially loosened and one top button was undone—the only crack in his professional armor.

As usual, their coworker, Miyagawa Keiko, was seated on the edge of the man's desk, as customary a fixture these days as a lamp—a chatty, sexed-up lamp. Keiko reclined back to draw the eye down her flat stomach to the just-a-hair-too-short skirt hem and all the way down her shapely legs. At 5'8", Keiko was the tallest woman in the office, made even more fearsome by the wildly impractical three-inch heels she rocked every day. She towered over most of the men, and she liked it that way, but at 6'4", _he_ was the exception, and Keiko liked exceptions.

Haruhi couldn't help a second eye roll before she returned to work. Naoko didn't miss it. With a devious smile, the keen-eyed lawyer said, "Morinozuka's coming, you know."

Haruhi's highlighter didn't break stride over her case notes. "Funny."

"I'm serious. Miyagawa convinced him."

Finally, the brunette dropped the highlighter and offered her nosy coworker a withering gaze. "Takashi doesn't club."

"Of course not, honey, but I think we all know he's not going to club." Haruhi quirked up one eyebrow, and Naoko sighed at her friend's naïveté. "He's going to get laid."

Haruhi nearly choked. "I think you're thinking of someone else."

"Please. A 27-year-old man does not want to sit at his desk on a Friday night doing work. He wants a one-night-stand with a hot chick like Miyagawa."

"Now I know you're insane," Haruhi muttered as she immediately began shuffling papers and arranging, and rearranging, piles on her desk—nothing looked right in its current place. "Do you even know who you're talking about?"

"Do you?"

Naoko's words hung for a moment before Haruhi plowed through them with a headshake. "I've known Takashi since high school, Inaba. We went to law school together. He was the one who recommended an internship here for me. A 'one-night stand' is not his thing."

Her friend shrugged. "Yeah, well, maybe Miyagawa's his thing now. People grow, Fujioka, they change. They start to figure out what they want in life, and it doesn't usually revolve around work. Just because you haven't changed doesn't mean your friends won't."

Haruhi had changed, she thought. Law school, a couple of boyfriends, moving out on her own, and, well, several years in a Host Club—they had all changed her. Hadn't they?

_Okay, describe yourself in three words, Haruhi,_ she challenged herself.

The answer came easily: _Determined, sensible, dedicated. _

All fine and commendable traits, ideal for a lawyer, but no mention of words like "fun" or "spontaneous" or "outgoing." Maybe she hadn't changed much at all.

If she thought back, after the Host Club disbanded, all parties had stopped. Haruhi wasn't forced to go to them anymore, and since she never had much of a desire to go anyway, she simply ignored her college classmates' invitations to them. Sure, she went out—for study groups in coffee shops and living rooms—and she dated—her longest relationship a polite romance with a former grade school classmate, Arai, which lasted almost a year before they realized they were better friends than lovers. But no matter where she was or with whom, she always sat in a neat and logical line with her hands in her lap and a distant smile on her face, one that let others think she was quietly enjoying herself while internally she cleaned out her pantry or wardrobe.

As each man from the Host Club pursued his own life apart from the others, Haruhi had returned to the insular bookworm she had always been, much to Ranka's despair. Until one day in her third year, she had come home from college to find her father, still dressed in drag, sitting on the balcony with his legs crossed and a cigarette with a long cherry smoldering between his lips. With a cheerful smile, he handed her a suitably dramatic note that read, "I've changed the locks. Please move out. I love you!"

But her father's hopes to shake up his daughter's stubborn routines and thrust her into a more adventurous life were swiftly dashed. With no one left to push her, Haruhi's world was reduced to studying and work, which was just fine with her since everything was leading her toward her ultimate dream of becoming a lawyer, and the only person there to penetrate the thick curtain she had drawn around herself was Takashi, a silent sentinel predisposed to go along with whatever she wanted to do: typically, sharing a library nook for a tandem reading of case studies.

Once her internship at Shozawa & Fukui ended and she was hired full-time, Haruhi moved from a modest studio apartment on the fourth floor of a honeycomb complex populated with similar academically-minded students into a modest studio apartment on the seventh floor of a honeycomb complex populated with other similar worker bees at a tolerable half-hour train ride from her firm. The most personal things about her home were her shrine to her mother and one picture of her with her father from her college graduation. Last year, after a whirlwind visit from Tamaki (and following a half hour pout-fest at her lack of Host Club memorabilia), he had presented her with a magnet featuring a photo from the Club's reunion three years prior, so she guessed there was that, too.

Wow, was that all her life boiled down to: a couple of pictures, a shrine, a magnet, and a job? If Haruhi thought about it, yeah, pretty much nothing about her had changed. Well, her hair was shoulder-length now and decidedly more feminine, and she had a few suits with skirts in her wardrobe courtesy the Hitachiin line, so that was something, right?

Her inner lawyer barked back immediately. But why should she change? Haruhi liked herself. She was so close to her ultimate goal of making a name for herself in the legal world, maybe even one day becoming a junior partner, and being "Haruhi" was responsible for getting her there.

But there was that one nagging voice deep in back of her mind.

_And what happens after you achieve your goal? What else will you have?_

A couple of pictures, a shrine, a magnet, and her job.

Haruhi glanced back at Takashi to find both his position and Keiko's unchanged—he continued working while she continued gabbing. At least he seemed impervious to it (all that time with a chatty Honey had paid off for something).

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Haruhi grumbled as she stamped a stack of papers into an orderly pile and stapled it with authority. "I've got too much work and not enough time to do it before Friday night."

Naoko clapped her hands together, a huge smile splitting her face and pitting two charming crescent moons on either side of her cheeks. Her almond-shaped eyes widened into delighted ovals as she shifted forward. "So, you're coming?'

"I didn't really want you to vomit on my desk anyway."

* * *

It wasn't what she expected. She expected loud, vibrant, and crowded, but the club was more primal than that. A deep vein of bass thudded in her chest while overhead, a network of lights pulsed and flared. The dance floor roiled in unison to an undulating beat before transitioning seamlessly into a series of staccato thumps, and the mass of people answered back with frenzied jumping in time. A sheen of sweat and glitter shimmered across every cheek bone and décolletage. It smelled like heat and hormones and aggressive perfume. Haruhi was so far out of her depth, it was downright comical. She could already feel herself slipping into that safe but distant smile and retreating into her virtual pantry.

"Don't," Naoko warned as she grabbed her friend by the wrist and captured her gaze. Her coworker's burgundy lips were pressed in a firm line parallel with her stern eyebrows, and a few errant tendrils of her buoyant crimped hair bobbed beside her round face. There was no escaping her. "Don't you go all android on me already. You're in it for the long haul, girly."

Though Haruhi had only known Naoko for the two years she'd been at the firm (and had only become friends because of Naoko's insistence and her own indifference), the woman could read her as expertly as testimony. There was a reason why Inaba Naoko had some of the highest settlement rates in the firm—she was fluent in body language and human psychology, and she always knew when to move in for the kill. On some level, even Haruhi feared her.

Still in her friend's grip, Haruhi was dragged up a flight of metal steps to a sweeping balcony with a bird's eye view of the entire dance floor. It was quieter up there and cooler beneath some industrial-sized air conditioning vents. In front of her, a long booth curled around an oval table marked with a bold Reserved placard and a haphazard pile of handbags, presumably from several other coworkers already on the dance floor.

Haruhi took a moment to study the view from the railing, and though she was thankful to be removed from the chaos, being above it was somehow more intimidating. Below them, there wasn't a square inch of floor to be had. Bodies rolled against other bodies heedless of prior acquaintance and skirts rode up over milky thighs. A flash of past Host Club parties superimposed itself over the scene, a garbled image of fair yellow roses twirling in white gloves and stockinged feet opposed to these mini-dresses grinding against tattered jeans.

Haruhi was a long way from Ouran.

"Fujioka?"

The young lawyer glanced to her right to find a short, mousy man with small eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses holding a glass of beer like it was his first ever. He wore a white button-up shirt, glowing blue in the black light, with the top two buttons undone; whereas Takashi made the style effortlessly sexy, on this poor fellow, it looked desperate. The flash of chest beneath was smooth and pale enough to have a blue cast to it, too, and his skin was stretched tightly over every rib. The tails of his shirt were stuffed into the waist of his jeans, accentuating his narrow hips, all tapering down to a well-loved pair of loafers.

Haruhi blinked her wide eyes at him, and though it may have been from an accent light, he seemed to blush. He looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place him.

"Yamanaka Kohei from Billing?" he stuttered at last.

"Nice to meet you," she replied.

He winced. "Actually, we've had lunch together six times."

Haruhi searched her memory banks but came up empty. She offered her most polite smile as an apology. "It's nice to see you again."

Despite the black light, there was no mistaking his blush this time, fierce as it was. "You look really lovely tonight, Fujioka."

"He's right, you do," chimed in a melodious voice. It was as familiar a sound as the office copier only slightly more grating.

Haruhi turned around to find a striking silhouette outlined by a spotlight—how freaking cliché. Keiko's tan cocktail dress left nothing to the imagination as it hugged her textbook hourglass figure. She had painted her lips cherry red and unspooled her waist-length locks into chic spirals that bounced as she strode forward. Her killer heels had grown an extra inch in anticipation of her evening out, and all Haruhi could do was wonder how the woman had managed to climb the steps in those things.

"Where did you get such an incredible dress?" Keiko continued, glancing down at her own as though it was just a frumpy old frock in the shadow of Haruhi's masterpiece.

Haruhi wasn't accustomed to people asking about her fashion sense—because she had none—so on special occasions, she had to outsource that talent to others. To be honest, if it weren't for her cold knees, she would have been totally oblivious to what she was actually wearing since she never seemed to invest much thought into it.

She glanced down at the pure white garment clinging from one shoulder. At just above the knee, it was shorter than she liked, made even worse by a teasing slit up the left thigh. Of course it was tight, too tight, cut precisely for her to amplify her meager attributes, and it did so flawlessly without the aid of a single embellishment. Despite her usual indifference, even Haruhi had to begrudgingly acknowledge it was the nicest thing she owned. There were only two people she knew who could accomplish such a feat and only one with a mastery for straddling the line between flirtatious and downright sexy.

"Hikaru," Takashi growled as he suddenly rounded the curve of the balcony with a glass of wine in his hand.

He was in a classic gray button-up complemented by an attractive pair of tailored black slacks. And, of course, there was that always-open top button, now teasing without the distraction of a tie. But, strangely, a pair of Converse sneakers peeked out below the hem of his pants, and something about the contradiction surprised her.

"Is that a friend of yours?" Keiko asked as she leaned beside Takashi at the railing, her shoulder lightly brushing his.

"Mm," Haruhi answered noncommittally.

Takashi passed Keiko the wine, but his eyes remained ratcheted on his friend while Haruhi's fixated on the ever-closing distance between Keiko's body and his. It almost felt like he was studying her like an opponent in a kendo match. Haruhi returned his gaze until the rest of their coworkers grew restless and Naoko cleared her throat. The strange moment severed, their eyes snapped to their party captain instead.

"Morinozuka!" Naoko ordered over the frenzied beat. "Go get your girl here a drink."

Takashi nodded dutifully and returned to the bar from whence he came, and though the music continued to hammer away and the lights continued to throb, somehow the air felt a bit lighter.

Naoko guided Haruhi to their booth and sidled up alongside her. "You look miserable."

"Thanks," Haruhi said flatly.

"No, don't get me wrong, I mean, your outfit is giving Miyagawa a run for her money, but you look like you'd rather be anywhere but here. I know I twisted your arm to come tonight, and I'm sorry. I can be pretty pushy. It's a personality flaw, and I'm working on it in my spare time—I just haven't had any spare time recently. I just wanted to share _something_ with you even if it's not your thing, and now you must feel like a fish out of water."

Haruhi shrugged. "No more so than I did the entirety of high school. And it is kind of nice to get out of the apartment—"

"You mean the office?"

"—fine, the office once in a while. Sure, I might not have picked this place to go, but no one pushes me to do anything anymore, and I think I just gave up on all of these experiences. I'm glad I'm here with all of you." She smiled, and there was no one alive, not a man nor a woman, who could resist a genuine Haruhi smile.

Naoko threw her arms around her friend's neck and squeezed, and all Haruhi could think about was a classic Tamaki suffocation hug. It was oddly comforting, and before she knew it, she found herself hugging her friend back.

Naoko pulled away and said, "Regardless, whenever you want to go, we'll go."

"It's fine, but don't expect me to be one of those people down there." Haruhi gestured toward the sea of dancers bouncing in perfect unison to the beat.

"A few drinks and a sexy partner, and you'll change your mind," said Naoko as she winked.

"You never give up."

"I'm a lawyer. I wear everybody down eventually." The girls shared a laugh until Takashi returned with a waitress carrying a tray of shot glasses sloshing to the rim with amber whisky. As she laid the glasses on the table, he divided them up, one each for Naoko, Keiko, Kohei, and himself, and a pair in a neat little row before Haruhi.

Naoko gaped. "Two shots? I said get her drunk, not send her to the ER."

Even Keiko looked concerned. She laid a hand on his forearm and shook her head slightly. "Takashi, Fujioka can't handle all that. Look how tiny she is."

Haruhi tried to hide her scowl, but she knew she had failed.

Takashi. No one but Haruhi called him by his given name at the office, and though it shouldn't have, it rankled. It had taken her years and a significant amount of amassed courage to transition from calling him Mori-sempai to his given name, and this virtual stranger had done it in six months. Worse yet, Takashi seemed unfazed by the familiarity.

"You'd be surprised," he said without taking his eyes off of his longtime friend. He stood there with crossed arms and a patient stare.

So it was a dare…

_Those long hours of playing commoner games with the Host Club might actually pay off at last_, she thought.

Naoko raised her shot, the amber liquid winking in the spotlights. "Let's have a toast. To our two elusive friends, may you always be so obliging of my indulgent whims."

"Kanpai!" Keiko said with a special smile just for Takashi.

As each knocked back a shot, Haruhi bit her lip and steadied her fingers around the chilled glass before she shotgunned both of them in rapid succession, eliciting a gasp from Kohei behind her. She savored the wave of bitterness sashaying down her throat long enough to growl and knit her eyebrows firmly together. The whisky's effect was instantaneous. Her cheeks flushed and her head swam as the pulsing lights distorted the shadows around the club, but, strangely, she felt better.

"Fujioka!" Naoko exclaimed.

Haruhi turned her bleary gaze to her coworker, the burn still tickling her tongue with a sheen of smoky oak and bitter grain. She hadn't felt that fire in her stomach in years, and back then, only on a few quiet celebrations in her apartment in the company of a very good friend, but even after all that time, there was no mistaking the bubbling instigator now working its way through her limbs.

"Exam week was always hell," she smirked

A corner of Takashi's lips ticked upward.

The music transitioned from percussive banging to smooth electronica, and the dancing shifted accordingly, bouncing giving way to sliding and swaying. Keiko cast a longing glance over the balcony. She was the kind of woman who didn't belong up there, out of the spotlight and out of the action, and even Haruhi couldn't begrudge her that when the woman looked as stunning as she did.

"Well, all right," Naoko said as she rubbed her hands together, "looks like we've got this party started. Are you ready to hit the floor, Fujioka?"

Behind them, Kohei shifted eagerly from one foot to the other, not quite dancing but more like pacing.

"I might need another drink before that."

"You just did two shots."

"Yeah, I might need another before that," Haruhi reiterated.

A young man—another company lawyer named Nissan or Nagasaki or Nigeria or something Haruhi couldn't remember—barreled up the stairs so fast he nearly stumbled a few from the top. He smiled broadly at Haruhi as he greeted her before his eyes landed on his intended target. He threw a hand over his heart and feigned collapsing. "Inaba! Help a dying man out. Dance with me."

"Don't be so dramatic, Nakajima. Good things to those who wait!" Naoko shouted back.

"Go ahead and go," urged Haruhi.

Her friend widened her eyes. "You wouldn't hate me if I went for one song? I don't want you to be any more uncomfortable than you already are."

"Don't be ridiculous, go. I can manage sitting on a couch by myself for five minutes."

"Your bluntness is what I love about you. I'll send you a thank you in minute or two." Haruhi didn't ask what that meant, but shooed her away all the same. Naoko patted her friend on the knee and darted along the balcony, leaving her seat beside her friend cooling only a moment before the bespectacled billing agent joined her.

Kohei raised his eyebrows above the rims of his glasses. "Wow."

Haruhi just tilted her head in response.

"I have to say, you're really not what I expected, Fujioka."

"What do you mean?"

There was a long pause as he anguished over what to say. He gripped the side of his frames and adjusted them, and Haruhi couldn't help but picture Kyoya (though the Shadow King would probably balk at being compared to a run-of-the-mill office wallflower). "You're always so quiet and focused at your desk. I guess I didn't really think you could do multiple shots so easily."

She shrugged. "I can't really. I guarantee I'll be saying things I shouldn't very shortly—which I guess I usually do anyway, so it'll probably be way worse now. I apologize in advance."

Kohei's head drooped and his face disappeared behind his unkempt bangs. "It's okay. I'm probably about to do that right now myself. It's really nice to see you outside of work. It lets me get to know you better even if you're not so much of an outsider like I am."

"An outsider?"

"You know, the odd one out. But you're flawless. It's like you belong here."

Haruhi tugged the tight neckline of her dress as she replied, "Oh, this isn't me. I never do this kind of stuff, not unless someone makes me, but I guess that's why I came. Because if you don't try new things, how do you know if they are you or not? And everyone went to all this trouble to make sure we had fun, so I'm obligated to enjoy it."

Kohei raised his head and found her earnest gaze. "Maybe you're right. I should put in more effort to try and enjoy myself. This is why I was really hoping you would come someday. You're a good person, Fujioka."

"Well, I don't know about all that, but I'm glad you're here, too."

He turned his head to hide the furious red scorching his cheeks, not that Haruhi understood it anyway.

"So, um, I was wondering, if you, um, feel up to it, would you do me the—the honor of dancing with me tonight?" His voice ticked up unusually high at the end, more like the squeak of a balloon letting out air between two pinched fingers than a man's voice.

"I can't guarantee that I'll be any good or that I won't embarrass you—" Kohei braced for the impact of her words. "—but I think if you don't care about that, neither do I."

A thunk on the table jolted their attention away from each other. Takashi was there, his fingers gripping the rim of a shot glass until it looked about ready to shatter.

"Are you okay, Takashi?" Haruhi asked, confused.

The tall man was quiet for a long moment as he averted his eyes toward the dance floor. Haruhi barely heard him over the siren call of the DJ.

"From Inaba," he grunted.

She looked at the fresh shot of whisky—Naoko's thank you—and the white knuckles that released it. She followed the length of his forearm to his sleeve, rolled tightly up to his bicep, until she found his jaw set firmly beneath his steady eyes.

The music shifted again, this time to something darker, more sensual. The raven-haired bombshell beside the railing straightened up and grabbed Takashi's free hand and tugged on it. "Come on, Takashi, dance with me?"

His eyes glanced back to his friend first, then the man next to her, before turning to Keiko. "Ah."

Keiko led him over the lip of the stairs, and before Haruhi knew it, they were gone. Suddenly, it seemed like the right time for that shot.

"What's wrong?" Kohei asked.

"Nothing. Just thirsty."

"Wouldn't you rather have some water?"

"Not this time." Haruhi tipped the drink between her lips, cool glass followed by fire water. The wince that followed was a welcome distraction.

With a wrinkled brow, Kohei returned his focus to the empty steps. "I think Morinozuka might be mad at me about something."

"I can't imagine why. He doesn't even know you."

"Something about his look. It's kind of frightening."

Haruhi almost laughed. Though she was used to his stoicism and distant looks, even comforted by them, she recalled how many students at Ouran had been intimidated by Takashi, especially when he was without Honey. She hardly ever saw a reason for their apprehension—save for when Takashi perceived a threat; when that happened, there was no one scarier.

"I wouldn't worry about it. That's his default face."

Still, Kohei looked wary.

A moment later, a breathless Naoko bounded onto the balcony and flopped onto the couch. Her chest heaved and her eyes twinkled. One joyful crescent framed her sloppy smile. She rolled to her side, and as she sat up, she caught sight of the empty shot glass and then her friend's face. "I see you got my present. Wow, and you downed it already. Hey, what's with the sour look, Fujioka?"

"It's the whisky," Haruhi said quickly.

"Mm-hm. Where's Takashi?"

"Dancing."

Naoko blanched and shot up from the couch. "Dancing? With Miyagawa? Oh, this I have to see."

In seconds, the outgoing woman was draped over the railing, scanning the floor for the unusual couple. Haruhi could tell by the incredulous shake of Naoko's head that she had spotted them, but while she fought against the base urge to spectate, it was a losing battle, especially when she saw how animated her coworker's face was. And there was that niggling curiosity...

Haruhi sighed and ambled over to the balcony's edge.

As Naoko studied Haruhi from her periphery, the other young lawyer's eyes were glued to floor below.

"Masochist," Naoko joked though Haruhi didn't quite get the punchline.

The dancers twisted and swayed in a fish bowl made worse by the swimming in Haruhi's head. Their skin and clothes morphed from purple to green to blue with the mood lighting, and every so often, a rapid succession of strobe lighting would immortalize their bodies in mid-undulation, frozen moments of foreplay on display. With so many people and effects, it should have been a challenging seek-and-find to single out one couple, but it was damn near impossible not to find that resolute pillar of a man towering above everyone else.

At first, Haruhi didn't see Keiko anywhere, when suddenly the black-haired bombshell rose up from the ground like a seedling sprouting from fresh earth. She ran a hand down the length of her locks, over her ample curves and down her thigh as she rolled from side to side in front of Takashi.

"Lord, that woman can rock a bodycon," Naoko said with wide eyes.

Haruhi pressed her lips together. "How does she keep it from riding up?"

"She doesn't even try, honey." Haruhi frowned while Naoko continued her commentary. "Still, I've got to give it to her. She goes after whatever she wants with all she's got, and she's going to get it, too."

Haruhi watched as impassively as she could. Keiko worked the man hard, and even Haruhi had to marvel at the way the woman's body responded to the music with the perfect blend of sensuality and enticement. The seductress managed a series of tight turns around her partner, like a miniature typhoon in four-inch heels.

But still Takashi had yet to lift an arm in response.

"Sheesh, she's using him as a pole," said Naoko.

Haruhi couldn't take her eyes off of them. She told herself to look away, but she was compelled to study them to the point where she felt less like a spectator and more like a voyeur. Keiko was everything she wasn't—adventurous, uninhibited, sexual—and it was downright provocative.

The long-haired beauty molded her back to Takashi's stomach, her tresses cascading down his shoulder as she snaked her hips down his length as though she were a paint brush. Haruhi had never even thought to move her body like that. Even in the safety of her darkened bedroom with the quiet and patient Arai underneath her, sex was all very perfunctory. This was an option she didn't even know was available to her, but she marveled at how fluidly it came to her coworker.

Naoko glanced at Haruhi again from the corner of her eye.

"Don't you think Keiko's too tall for him?" she said slowly. "I always sort of pictured Morinozuka with someone shorter."

"I guess I never really thought about it," Haruhi replied. She hadn't, but now that Naoko mentioned it, she was probably right. Something about the two of them didn't fit. Haruhi made note of every caress, every stroke that Keiko lavished on her motionless partner, and watched for any response from Takashi, any reciprocation of the obvious feelings Keiko had for the man. Her hands glided up over his cheek bones and then back under his jaw line, pulling him toward her. His eyes stared absently ahead.

Until they didn't.

As the second verse concluded, his gray orbs flicked up and caught Haruhi staring. She was mortified and nearly stumbled back from the railing as the refrain built to a monstrous crescendo, but something about his gaze commanded her to stay.

And then her world shifted.

"Fujioka, please explain to me what I'm seeing right now," demanded Naoko as her hand gripped Haruhi's wrist fiercely.

"I can't."

Takashi was transformed by the dark melody. His body was infused with the intensity of each rhythmic burst as he personified the haunting lyrics. Other dancers parted immediately for him, in awe of his expert control over his body. His feet were a blur beneath him as his Converses tapped and glided across the linoleum, and his arms struck out and back with the precision and grace of the master swordsman he was. So this was the sort of man he was now that Honey was no longer around to take the spotlight.

"I didn't know Morinozuka could dance like that."

"He can't," Haruhi asserted.

"Someone should probably tell him that. Damn."

A slow bridge overtook the rhythm for a moment, and Takashi's body responded accordingly. He rolled on the balls of his feet and abruptly leaned back, one hand tracing the length of his torso and ending suggestively on his belt buckle. Naoko hollered and covered her eyes with one hand, but Haruhi was rooted in place.

She watched as his every muscle contracted, as his neck lengthened and his bicep strained against the constricting prison of his rolled sleeve. She watched as sweat beaded beneath his open collar and reflected slivers of red light. She watched every inch of him as though she had never seen him before.

"Wow," Naoko said, finally uncovering her eyes but unable to hide the crimson singeing her cheekbones, "I did _not_ realize Morinozuka was so interested in impressing Miyagawa. I always thought he just tolerated her because she's hot."

It was the first time something managed to steal Haruhi's attention away from the stranger tearing up the floor beneath her. "Impressing her? He's just having a good time."

Naoko gave her a withering look. "A good time is letting the lady dance on you. You don't break out moves like that unless you don't want her to dance with anyone else. Ever."

Haruhi returned her eyes to the floor. "You're wrong."

"Who are you talking to? My eyes see and know all. I'm telling you, a man like Morinozuka does not take center stage unless it's for a woman."

As the song worked its way to its conclusion, Haruhi's eyes shifted to his partner, and it became abundantly clear that Naoko was right. Keiko's face was bright, and her lips hung open in a slackened smile as Takashi had flipped the tables and now danced circles around her, never touching her, never touching her. She bit her lip as she gently swayed in time with the beat. One of her hands traced sloppy ovals along the exposed skin at the edge of her neckline. Keiko followed every glide of his feet and every swing of his arms with unmistakable adoration.

The last notes hit, and Takashi punctuated his routine with one final silken body roll that brought heat not only to Haruhi's cheeks but to her abdomen. His eyes flicked up toward the balcony. Naoko gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, but Haruhi immediately retreated from view.

"Morinozuka is amazing," Kohei said.

"He is," Haruhi agreed numbly, "he is."

She stumbled back a few steps until her calves knocked against the couch, and she crashed down onto it, staring blankly ahead of her as she replayed a broad hand caressing a broad chest, this time undoing his belt buckle. Surely that last bit was fantasized, but the image was there and would not fade, stubborn as a wine stain on a white dress.

"Probably won't see Morinozuka for the rest of the night," Naoko joked. "You should see how he's getting mobbed. You'd think a club full of people dancing would have seen legit dancers before."

Haruhi made no response. Naoko snapped her fingers, but she couldn't bring her friend back. "Fujioka? Haruhi!"

Her friend blinked and looked up as though nothing had happened.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" Naoko asked.

"Nothing."

"'Nothing,' my ass. You look a little flushed. I shouldn't have gotten you that last drink. Are you actually okay?"

"I'm fine."

Naoko stared hard at her friend as though she was trying to see into her. Her eyes narrowed and her lips puckered. Finally, she said, "Yeah, well, we both know you wouldn't tell me even if you weren't, so I'm trusting my gut. Spill."

Haruhi sagged under the weight of the alcohol in her bloodstream, and she was losing the ability to filter what she had to say—a serious problem for a woman with an almost non-existent filter to begin with. "You were right. Takashi has changed. I never even noticed or asked. How self-absorbed is that? I mean, when did he learn to dance like that? And he's with Miyagawa, and I don't even know how long it's all been going on."

Naoko paused. "Are you sure those are the only things that have changed?"

Haruhi turned her big brown saucers toward her coworker. "What do you mean?"

"I guess we're not ready to talk about that yet. Listen, you just need to take back a little bit of control in your life. Your ten-year goal is still ten years away, so start by thinking about the here and now. What about the other things with an immediate expiration date?"

Haruhi stared blankly at her until a short sigh issued from the spunky lawyer.

"Carpe diem, Fujioka. Let's hit the dance floor. I told you I'd find you a sexy partner. Ta-da!" Naoko pointed to her cheesy grin and dimpled cheeks.

"I don't know if I'm ready yet."

The grin melted into a disappointed frown. "I get it. Right idea, wrong partner. I'll keep my eyes open for an opportunity to present itself."

At that moment, Keiko and Takashi crested the stairs. She was still biting her lip as her arm hooked through his. Where she was radiant, he was reserved. On the couch, each of their coworkers gawked at the man who, on the surface at least, betrayed no signs of the dancing machine who lurked beneath—almost to the point where they began to question that they'd even witnessed it.

"You two were amazing down there," Kohei said.

Had Kohei watched them, too? Haruhi searched her memories of moments ago, but she could only come up with images of purposeful hands on belt buckles. If she forced her addled brain to zoom out just a little farther—as far as it was willing to go from its new favorite subject—she discovered Kohei might have been right beside her the whole time.

"Yeah, we make a pretty great team," Keiko beamed.

"Yeah, do ya?" Haruhi blurted. "You're both so tall. Really, the perfect couple!"

Naoko rammed her elbow into her friend's side, which only elicited another too-loud "What?" from Haruhi. Keiko scowled and Naoko tried to recover with a pantomime of her drinking. Takashi turned those stormy eyes on Haruhi, but she just squinted back at him. An uncomfortable silence settled over the group despite the new song now drumming hard in the background.

After a moment, Haruhi sighed. "This is boring, and I've got stuff to do."

She stood up in front of the stunned group, teetered just a little before proudly regaining her balance, and stalked off down the stairs using the banister as a lifeline. Naoko made a move to chase after her friend, but Takashi raised a hand to stop her as he disentangled himself from Keiko.

Haruhi was already waiting at the bar downstairs by the time he had navigated through a crowd of people still praising him for his performance. A fresh-faced bartender with shaggy black hair and a charming smile assessed Haruhi as she leaned on the counter. "Shot of vodka please."

"Cancel that," the tall sentinel behind her ordered to the bartender. To Haruhi, he said, "You've already had three shots."

"And now I want four. This isn't high school any more, sempai. I can order a drink if I want. I'll take that shot now," she demanded again.

Takashi shook his head at the bartender, and frustrated and confused, the young man walked away with his hands up. "When you people figure out what you want, let me know."

Haruhi growled and whirled to face the man she thought was her friend. "Yeah, _sempai_, what do you want?"

He loomed over her, somehow larger than she ever remembered, larger even than when she first met him that fateful day back in her first year at Ouran. Haruhi suddenly wished she had worn more than a kitten heel so she would feel as big as the anger that bubbled in her stomach.

"Dance with me." Takashi bowed and offered his hand, his pale palm shifting colors in the rainbow lights. "Please."

She stared at it, his ceasefire. The anger inside her swirled into something else, still bubbling and distracting and oddly anxious. "You know how I dance."

"Ah."

"And now I know how you dance."

"Ah."

"Can I at least have that other drink?"

He shook his head. She sighed and took his hand. She had to—her body wouldn't let her say no. He offered his twitch of a smile, always a secret favorite of hers.

"Nothing crazy now," she commanded.

"I'll go easy on you."

"I don't mind it a little rough," she mumbled. The words were out before she could stop them. Whisky and horror scorched her cheeks. Evidently the alcohol had loosened more than her inhibitions. Maybe he hadn't heard…

Takashi raised one eyebrow but said nothing. The music changed again, this time to something light and happy, as far removed from the primitive hunger of his song with Keiko. Haruhi's hand still in his, he led her toward the other denizens of hedonism.

Bodies surrounded her, pressing close without touching. Haruhi could feel the heat radiating off their undulating forms, amplified by the alcohol coursing through her veins. She felt claustrophobic, dizzy, but worst of all, even with three shots in her, she still felt out-of-place, like everyone was looking at her—and they probably were because it was hard to forget the only 6' 4" dancer in the club.

With the placement of two very firm hands now gripping her hips, Takashi redirected her attention to him and him alone. The moment his hands first touched her body, something changed. She knew it, and he knew it. She was electrified by him. His touch in this place in this moment had unlocked something she had never actually felt before: need. It was a raw emotion, and it left her tattered and aching.

"Relax, it's just me," he said as he drew her body closer to his.

"And who are you?" She was only half-joking.

As they adjusted to each other's touch, they stood still. Haruhi could not bring herself to look at her friend, her eyes keenly focused on that damned belt buckle winking in the pink luminescence spotlighting them.

But Takashi was biding his time, waiting for just the right swell of music, and when it hit, he rolled her hips side-to-side like a bell under his hands' firm tutelage. Her head shot up to find him waiting for her. His face was fixed in its usual impassive look, but Haruhi could read beneath it to the satisfaction underneath. And since she could read him, he could surely read her surprise and maybe even—god forbid—her desire.

Haruhi felt the urge to make small talk, anything to take away some of the power he held over her as he rocked her body beneath his dexterous fingers. "You didn't dance like this in high school."

Takashi stared at her.

"Did you?"

Still staring.

"Did you!"

He smiled slightly. "No, college."

Haruhi sighed with relief; at least she wasn't completely oblivious. "When did you even have time for that?"

"Picked it up at parties."

Even Takashi had gone to parties. When? Hadn't they spent the vast majority of their time together? Come to think of it, he had asked her to join him at a few, all of which she politely declined. She hadn't missed them at the time—she still didn't—but she did regret not seeing him dance sooner. In fact, she regretted not knowing this whole side of him, and she wondered what other secrets he had locked inside waiting to explode.

With her motion started, Takashi set her free and watched with no attempt to conceal his pleasure at his success. Haruhi was dancing. Like a snowball down a hillside, her body gathered momentum, even venturing a few rudimentary steps in time with the melody. Her eyes fixated on the pointed toes of her black pumps.

Takashi's hand returned to her skin, his fingers stroking the length of her jaw and guiding her eyes to him. "Watch me, not your feet."

He removed his hand and grasped hers instead as he added some distance between them. When their arms were taut, he raised them like a bridge and motioned for her to twirl beneath them. Haruhi spun hesitatingly at first, still stumbling under the influence of alcohol and Takashi's penetrating touch (hard to tell which was the more disorienting), but she was more confident the second time around. She joined her other hand with his as they stepped apart and then together, their palms pressing in a nervous kiss.

Just as she was getting the hang of the moves, Takashi released one of her hands and flung her out along the length of the other until, with one stiff pull, he whipped her back to him—a little easy, a little rough, as promised. His face was in her hair, his breath warming her scalp, as her spine conformed to the contours of his chest. His pelvis pressed into her lower back while his hands returned to their comfortable home on her hips.

"You called me sempai," he mumbled into her hair.

Her breath hitched. Her heart hammered. "I know. Old habits."

"I didn't like it."

His fingers dug into her, not painful but demanding and so very, very welcome. Haruhi would say anything just to keep them there. "I'm sorry, Takashi."

His thumbs made lazy twin swirls just above the bump of her backside—his silent acceptance of her apology—and Haruhi knew what was going to happen next. At Takashi's insistence, the pendulous swing kicked up once again, only this time their bodies were compelled together, and he had to move in time with her. She could feel that belt buckle, the same one her stubborn mind wouldn't stop undoing, chafing her through her scrap of a dress until she wanted to rip the damn thing off for some relief, but the thought of separating from him, even for a moment, was more than she could bear. Part of her hoped Keiko was watching, but she wasn't brave enough to check.

Takashi's hands slid up her slender frame with the barest graze of his fingertips over the small hills of her breasts as he quested for her bare shoulders. She sucked in a sharp breath.

With a firm grip, he turned her toward him, keeping her close, keeping her touching him, and though their feet continued to find the rhythm, it was independent from their eyes, which were singularly focused on one another.

Takashi searched her face, but what he was looking for, Haruhi couldn't tell. "Are you friends with Yamanaka now?"

"We're not really—" But she cut herself off as her brain finally processed the strange tone of his question. "Are you friends with Miyagawa now?"

He grunted noncommittally. "Are you going to dance with him?"

"If I'm dancing with you, I don't see any way to get out of it."

"You could find a way."

Was it her imagination or were his fingertips creeping under the slit of her dress? And was it her imagination or was she urging her thigh into his fingers? How far would she let them go?

_All the way,_ she thought capriciously.

They were locked together, no more words passing between the two, only hungry signals that even 80 proof liquor couldn't dull. Even as their song segued into a more upbeat rhythm, they swayed, one hand now on her waist and the other half-buried beneath a cotton flap of white flag—her surrender. Another inch and he would graze the lace trim of her underwear.

"Excuse me?"

The two friends shot apart, startled by the little slip of a woman with a shy smile and heavily painted cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I was hoping—oh, this is so stupid. Um, my friends dared me to ask you to dance."

Takashi only stared in response, a technique he patented back in his Host Club days for just such occasions. The woman waited for an actual response, but all she received was a flick of his eyes toward Haruhi, and eventually she got the message. With a scrunched-up face and tensed shoulders, she slipped into the crowd and headed toward three other young ladies who patted her on the shoulder and offered cheerful smiles.

After a moment, Haruhi said, "That would have broken Tamaki's heart to see you neglecting your hosting duties for another host."

He smirked and reality came crashing back down around her. His fingers had been under her dress, sliding higher—should have gone even higher. Takashi.

"I'm feeling a little light-headed. Let's go back upstairs."

Takashi presented his hand to her, but it was too dangerous, and Haruhi plunged forward through the throngs.

Back upstairs, a strange vibe had invaded the lounge. Though Naoko and Kohei were chatting on the couch, Keiko was staring over the railing, her sleek back to them. Beside her were two other women Haruhi vaguely recognized from the office, one of whom was squeezing Keiko's hand.

When one of them spotted Haruhi, the woman narrowed her eyes at her. Everything felt a little forced and entirely too dramatic for Haruhi's taste.

"You're back," Naoko beamed. She crossed over to her friend and leaned in close. "You look different. Is your dress shorter?"

"What? No!" But to her horror, she realized it was. Haruhi frantically tugged the hemline down as far as it would go, fruitlessly willing it into a safe and roomy pair of pants.

Naoko winked. "What did I tell you about a sexy partner? Makes everything better."

"Takashi's just a friend."

"Who happens to be sexy. And anyway, friends don't usually dance like lovers."

"You were watching?"

"Please, woman, everyone was. Besides, I had to make sure you were okay after you stormed off. Seems like you're doing just fine."

Haruhi slumped over. "I just want to crawl into a hole."

Naoko put an arm around her friend's shoulder and guided her over to the couch where she collapsed, her head lolling into the stiff backing. "If it makes you feel any better, you looked really great out there. I swear you nearly broke Yamanaka in two when you started doing that little grind."

"Please don't remind me," Haruhi begged, covering her face.

Damn whisky, damn Naoko, damn Takashi. Everything was conspiring against her to turn her into something she wasn't. She wasn't some free spirit like Naoko, and she wasn't some vixen like Keiko. But…

But a part of her wanted to be—at least once. And maybe it was the whisky talking, but for a few minutes, it had all been worth it.

She had never really considered Mori—or any of the boys in the Host Club, for that matter—as a love interest. For one thing, when she was in school, her life had been about school and dating had seemed... superfluous. For another, there were trip wires all over that minefield. She couldn't do anything without an audience, so dates were out of the question.

All right, so maybe that wasn't all precisely true. Once at a private study session with Takashi, they'd shared a snack of onigiri and tea, and as his teacup left his lips, they had glistened in the afternoon sun, and Haruhi had felt an unbearable compulsion to lick them for him. But he had done the deed himself, and the world returned to normal, the moment forgotten.

Well, obviously not forgotten—buried.

Takashi was leaning back against the railing, his long torso stretched taut under his shirt and the muscles in his neck contoured by flickering shadows. His head was turned to the side, just far enough to casually study the dance floor over his shoulder—the definition of cool indifference. Moments ago, his hand had been under her dress as his eyes uncoiled her hidden desires, and now he looked so bored he could have been waiting in line for street ramen or an ATM. Haruhi didn't understand it, but for some reason, it stung.

Though Keiko kept her distance, her eyes strayed consistently to him yet he never moved, and Haruhi realized with no small measure of shock that she felt bad for the other woman. Haruhi felt the urge to chase away all of this insanity with another shot, but the last vestiges of her practical self clung for purchase just long enough remind her it would only make things worse.

After a few minutes of awkward communal silence, Naoko's dance partner, Nakajima, and the lawyer from the cubicle next to Haruhi's, Takeda Kenichi, joined the deflated party with beers in hand and wolfish grins on their faces.

"Contrary to popular belief, this is still a party," Nakajima joked as he surveyed the miserable crowd.

Using only her sternest courtroom glare, Naoko ordered the young man to sit, and he immediately complied, even if it was with a rather petulant slouch.

Kenichi, on the other hand, perched on the edge of the coffee table directly opposite Haruhi, one leg propped up on table. His bangs were spiked down over his eyes lending an edge to his high, polished cheekbones. He wore a sleeveless shirt that emphasized some rather impressive biceps that Haruhi had never noticed at work—and she was surprised she even noticed now—and a plaid shirt he had tied around his hips to contour his tapering waist. He exuded a cool confidence that would have served him well as a member of her Host Club.

Haruhi Fujioka did not notice these things about people. She didn't make judgments about others' looks but rather looked past them to their personalities. But, for some reason, tonight she couldn't stop herself from noticing the definition of his triceps or the subtle ripple of abs beneath the peephole of his shirt's arm holes. At some point tonight, a switch inside her had been flicked on, and she had no way to turn it off.

"You looked incredible out there, Fujioka. You still look incredible," Kenichi said with a slight smirk. He took a swig from his glass without lifting his eyes from a serious study of her face.

Sitting down was only making Haruhi's head feel more jumbled, and she blinked her large eyes a few times trying to focus on what her coworker was saying. As usual with her, the effect was more endearing than she had intended, and he smiled broadly.

"I don't know," she said, "I can't see myself."

"Trust me, you were a revelation."

She glowered. "I'm not sure I want to know what I revealed…"

Kenichi laughed and leaned back. With a wink, he added, "Nothing I didn't want to see."

Haruhi blinked again, unsure of his meaning.

From beside Naoko, Nakajima sat up. "What do you think, ladies? Would you favor us with another dance?"

Naoko took one look at the hunched-over mess of a woman next to her and shook her head. "Dance cards are full, boys. Maybe next time." Nakajima dropped dramatically backwards into the couch and sighed, but Naoko patted him firmly on the knee and, with patronizing look, added, "I think you'll live."

"I might not," Kenichi teased.

At the edge of the couch, Kohei was wringing his hands and doing his damnedest to look disinterested, but he couldn't hold the façade any longer, and he turned to Haruhi with brows pinched tight. "Are we still dancing, Fujioka?"

Another flash across her addled mind, Takashi with his hands on her hips, begging her not to dance with Kohei.

"_You could find a way_."

It was like he was inside of her, and she shivered at the thought.

Haruhi ventured a glance to Takashi. His figure was unchanged except now he was watching her, as though he could hear her thoughts. His eyes spoke to her. "_Don't_."

But then she remembered he had danced with Keiko, and not only that, he had revealed to her a whole secret side of himself.

"Next song," she promised, not breaking eye contact with Takashi. Kohei bowed slightly and smiled before polishing off the same beer he'd been nursing for the better part of an hour. "I'll meet you down there."

She couldn't fight it any longer—one last drink was all she needed to carry her through the night. Whatever was running through her head—and worse, exciting her body—she was not equipped to handle it.

Haruhi headed to the bar, and Naoko followed without being asked. As Haruhi leaned on the counter, the bartender Takashi had slighted earlier approached her. He smirked, evidently happy to find her without opposition this time, and had her vodka shot ready without even being asked.

Naoko placed a hand on Haruhi's shoulder. "You know, you don't have to dance with Yamanaka if you don't want to. I'll be your cover. You can tell him I drank a bit too much, and you need to take care of me. No one would question that."

But the young ingénue shook her head. "It's okay, Inaba. Yamanaka's nice."

"He's safe."

Haruhi dipped her head in a single slow nod. "I like safe."

She felt a slight squeeze on her shoulder, and somehow it magnified Naoko's next words: "You like safe, you don't love it."

"It's fine."

"Then why are you about to down another shot of liquid numbness? Face it, Fujioka, there's a secret part of you that craves a little drama and a little passion. It's why I like you so much—you're an onion. You know I'm never wrong about these things."

Haruhi stared at Naoko as she tipped the liquid between her lips. It may have been clear like icy spring water, but it lodged like a stinging nettle in her esophagus.

"Stubborn onion. I will peel away your layers!" the crimped beauty shouted after her as Haruhi headed toward the dance floor.

She stood at the ebbing sea of bodies, waiting for the music to change and her partner to show up. The lights were a little starrier now, and the music was less about the lyrics and more about the beat; even alone, her shoulders started swaying without a second thought. The vodka sat like a chilled stone in her stomach, a visceral reminder of every bad decision she'd made that night.

A new rhythm hit, this one slower, smokier than the others, and right on time, through the encroaching fog in her mind, she saw a lean silhouette striding purposefully for her. It loomed large in the distance, graceful and determined, and her breath caught as she waited for the man who would emerge. But the closer he got, the smaller he shrank, and just like that, breathing became a whole lot easier.

"Are you all right?" Kohei asked as he stepped into a passing spotlight, the blinding whiteness highlighting the person he wasn't.

Haruhi squeezed her eyes tightly to dispel the image. "Yes, thanks. Just feeling a little out of place. I'm remembering I don't really have any moves."

Another dusting of light pink on his cheeks at a memory. "You seemed to do fine earlier."

"I just followed Takashi's lead."

"I'm sorry to tell you I don't have his skill set."

"Nobody does, but I guess we'll do our best."

Kohei smiled in agreement and took up residence a few feet away from her, just out of arm's reach. He had not exaggerated when he said he lacked Takashi's dancing skills. The man had one move, which was to stiffly rock his shoulders from side to side, and he was perennially a second behind the beat.

Haruhi was no better, though the vodka was like oil for her hips, sweeping them pendulously, enough to hypnotize some of the strangers crowding her. The music was sultry and slow, but even then, they couldn't get their rhythms to sync up, and, despite her haze, the whole thing felt unnatural.

To break the tension, Haruhi closed the rift between them and grabbed one of his hands, placing it on her waist. Kohei yanked it back immediately as if her skin were lava, but a drunk Haruhi was even more brazen than a sober one, and she took his same hand and rested it on her shoulder this time. Again, he pulled away, this time adding a step back.

Haruhi frowned. "It's okay to touch me, Kohei."

At hearing his given name fall from her rouged lips, he blanched, and it was nearly a full verse before he could find the words to respond. "I—I'm not used to this."

"Neither am I, but even I know this is more like two strangers swaying at a bus stop, not dancing. Trust me."

Kohei stepped back and raised his hands toward her, fingers trembling even in the waxing and waning light. His fingertips rested so lightly on her waist that they may as well have been butterflies landing on a flower. No current of electricity raced through her as it had with Takashi, but anything was better than the clinical apathy of their lethargic wobbling. Haruhi put her hands on his shoulders for lack of anything better to do, successfully reliving the only middle school dance she had attended.

"Better," she reassured and Kohei nodded briefly.

With some normality restored, they rocked together long enough to ride out the melody, and yet it only took a few seconds before she caught him casting glances behind her.

"Looks like your friends have come to check on you," he said when she noticed.

Haruhi craned her head far enough back to find Takashi and Naoko together on the dance floor only a few couples over from them. How long had they been there?

Takashi stared at her relentlessly, those steely eyes more molten than hardened. Where his body was rigid, Naoko's at least feigned a more natural rhythm to the music, and she even went so far to snap her fingers in front of his face. When he didn't so much as flinch, she physically pulled his face toward hers, and though Haruhi was far too unfocused to make out her words, there was no mistaking that it was a verbal lashing.

"The nerve of that rich bastard," she ranted. "He tries to tell me that I can't dance with anyone else, but he's over there dancing with my friend?"

Kohei quirked his head. "Morinozuka told you not to dance with me? And you still did?"

Haruhi hadn't heard a word since she was lost in a fog of her own annoyance. Though she faced her partner again, she didn't see him—she was looking right through him toward something she was too drunk to really understand.

"I don't get it," she barked. "Everyone practically shoved me bodily out of my comfort zone and begged me to try and have fun, and as soon as I do, they're all telling me I shouldn't. So you know what? Starting right now, I'm going to do what I want to do."

"What do you want to do?"

"Well, I'm here, so I guess I want to dance."

Haruhi swirled around in Kohei's grip so that her back was to him and she could face her antagonizers head on. Her hips and shoulders swung a little too wide and freely as she raised one hand to her throat and echoed Naoko's choking move from the other day. Her friend was quick to respond with a drinking pantomime, and the best reasoned retort an inebriated Haruhi could muster was sticking out her tongue.

Victory in hand, Haruhi spun back around to find Kohei waiting with raised eyebrows. His hands remained cemented to the exact same spot on her waist as though he feared a millimeter higher or lower would break her—or him.

"Inaba's been on my case all night, trying to tell me I play it too safe. Well, I like safe!"

"I do, too," he echoed.

"Yeah, safe is good. Safe is… safe." Haruhi ventured one lingering glance back, this time at Takashi. Despite Naoko's best efforts to refocus him, his eyes persisted.

Haruhi's voice trailed off, "It can't be bad if we both like it."

Kohei cleared his throat, and when he did, his hands jumped at Haruhi's sides, the renewed contact garnering all her attention to him. "I know I already said this, but I'm glad you're here, Fujioka. I sat on that couch all night the last eight times everybody came here, hoping against hope you'd show up."

Haruhi tilted her head. "Why?"

"Why?" Kohei repeated in shock. He blinked and glanced away. "I thought I—. Because I like you, Fujioka."

"I like you, too," she answered automatically and a bit too loud even for the speakers still pumping out the slow jam.

Kohei exhaled slowly. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

It took Haruhi a moment to realize she'd agreed and even longer to realize she'd meant it. Curiosity, stubbornness, a vodka-whisky cocktail all had a say in the matter even if she had no idea they did. Whatever it was, it didn't change what she had consented to. So much for "safe."

Kohei pulled himself one step closer and leaned forward, his eyes closing automatically; she waited with wide eyes. His lips were a soft brown, and full and broad, they covered her lips with a gentle stamp. Maybe it was that last shot of "liquid numbness" or maybe it was the timidity of Kohei's lips, but she felt nothing. If her eyes hadn't stayed defiantly open, she might not have known someone was even kissing her. A second later, he pulled back, those broad lips already curled into a smile full of hope and a finally-realized dream. Haruhi answered back with her award-winning grin until his face dappled with scarlet.

And suddenly her smile collapsed. "I'm going to be sick."

Haruhi wrenched out of his grip and darted toward the ladies' room, one hand clamped over her mouth, and that—not Kohei's kiss—she could feel. A moment later, Naoko chased after her friend in time to catch a conclusive flush and a thunk against a stall door.

Naoko rapped on the metal lightly. "Sweetie, you okay?"

"No," came the miserable reply.

"Yes, you are."

Haruhi groaned. "Why did you even ask if you had already made up your own answer?"

Naoko ignored the question. "You want to tell me what happened out there?"

"No."

"Come on, tell me, Onion. Yamanaka's going to think his kiss made you sick."

"You're not helping," Haruhi wailed.

"What do you want me to say? You're a mess right now. You dance like you're dating Morinozuka, but then you kiss Yamanaka in front of him."

It was Haruhi's turn to ignore the comment. She slumped against the stall door, her forehead pressed against the icy metal.

"Why did you dance with him?" Haruhi whispered.

Him. They both knew whom Haruhi meant.

Naoko mimicked her friend's body language on the other side. "Because he asked me to," she whispered back.

"But you didn't have to say yes."

"Honey, Morinozuka didn't ask me because he wanted to. He asked me because he needed an excuse to be close to you." Naoko gave the truth a moment to sink in, but with the door in between them, it was hard to know if she was having any success. "Will you come out please? There's something else I have to tell you, and I refuse to confess it through a bathroom door that says 'Blondes do it best.'"

The door squeaked open so that one huge brown eye peered through cautiously before revealing a pale face glistening with diamonds of sweat and a few damp strands of hair around her mouth. With one quick glance in the mirror, Haruhi flinched. "I really am a mess."

"At least you're still a hot mess. Okay, that didn't exactly come out right, but you know what I mean."

Haruhi shuffled over to the sink and splashed some water over her face and neck, savoring the shock of penetrating cold that trickled down between her still-numbed lips. As she stood up, she turned to Naoko for help. Her friend grabbed her face and smoothed her thumbs under Haruhi's eyes as she wiped away the gray shadows of fading liner.

"All my hard work on your makeup and it's already to shit," Naoko teased with a half-smile, "and yet you still look like a damn idol. You're a natural."

"I've heard that one before," she grumbled. As Haruhi dispelled the memories of her Host Club days once again, she was left in the raw and confusing here-and-now with a jumble of flashes and emotions that no amount of cold water could clarify. "Inaba, what is with everyone tonight?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, smudging the corners of Haruhi's eyes.

"They all seem different."

"You mean the guys?" Haruhi nodded and Naoko pulled her hands back, one half-heartedly trying to cover her amused grin. "Have you always been this oblivious to these things?"

Haruhi rolled her eyes. "So I've been told."

"Honey, you have to understand, everyone here is used to seeing you in a buttoned-up pantsuit, and now," she gestured at Haruhi from head to toe, "you're wearing every man's fantasy."

"I'm going to kill those damned Hitachiins," Haruhi muttered to herself as she made a fist.

"I think they're finally seeing you as a woman, not just a coworker. Yamanaka, Takeda." Naoko paused. "Morinozuka."

"I told you we're friends."

"And I told you these eyes know and see all. And on that note, it's time for my painfully honest confession, Haru." Naoko apologetic and informal? This was serious. The young woman focused all of her considerable magnetism on Haruhi, her dark eyes framed by crimped fringe and flawless winged eyeliner. "I was wrong."

Haruhi blinked. "About what?"

"About Morinozuka. He wasn't trying to impress Miyagawa."

"Inaba, you're never wrong. How many times have I heard you say that?"

"No, I know, but I was wrong about whom he was trying to impress." She clasped Haruhi's hand in one of hers and squeezed to underline her point. "You, Haru, he was trying to impress you."

Haruhi yanked her hand back and violently shook her head so hard she made herself dizzy. She braced against the sink as she focused on anything other than the earnest woman in front of her. Surely, she had heard Naoko wrong, but the echo in here was terrible—or was it just in her mind?

_You, you, you_…

"Yeah, okay, you're definitely right about being _totally wrong_. Get those 'famous' eyes checked."

Naoko stubbornly moved back into Haruhi's line of sight. "Look, I admit, I was looking at the wrong person when he was dancing with Miyagawa. She was a means to an end. That dance was for you, girl, and once it was out of the way, he moved in for the kill. No doubt about it. After your dance together, to ignore something like that with someone like him is a _huge_ mistake."

A wisp of a woman in a black crop top and matching mini skirt breezed past Haruhi on her way to the sink and, with a sweep of her hand and a jab of her pointer finger, said, "She's right, the tall one's totally into you."

"Thank you, total stranger," Naoko said with a firm nod. "See, everyone knows it, even Miyagawa."

Haruhi frowned. "No. Just no. Takashi's just used to protecting me."

"Protect you? From Yamanaka? The man is the living personification of tofu—nice enough on his own but rather uninspired."

"If you even compare Takashi to beef—"

"Wagyu, honey."

Haruhi sighed and rolled her head back. "That's terribly demeaning."

Naoko waved her off. "Fine, fine, you're right. Anyway, _you're_ the one who kissed Yamanaka. You tell me, what was it like? And be honest because the only one you'd be lying to is yourself. Remember, I already know the answer."

Haruhi offered her friend a withering glance before she hedged, "I don't know. It was a kiss."

"That is literally the worst thing you could say about a first kiss."

She threw her hands up and growled, "I'm not good at this kind of stuff. And if you can't tell, I'm a little sick."

"Okay," Naoko said as she squared Haruhi's shoulders to her and started wiping the sick from her friend's hair, "fine. Rate it on a scale of one to ten for how weak in the knees it made you, one being stiff as a tree trunk and ten being a puddle on the floor."

There was a long silence as Haruhi's eyelids fluttered closed at Naoko's ministrations in her hair. She was back on the dance floor, moments before and moments after the kiss, and she realized it was as if nothing had even happened at all. But saying that out loud felt like some kind of defeat or worse, a concession that Naoko had been right.

"This is ridiculous and I'm not feeling well and I've had too much to drink and—"

"Oh, just admit it already!" Naoko shouted.

"One!" Haruhi blurted and then immediately covered her mouth, this time just trying to keep the honesty from spewing out. She felt sicker than she had a moment ago. She had invited Kohei to kiss her, and here she was rating it in a club bathroom and, not only that, acknowledging that, for her, it had meant nothing.

It had meant nothing.

In a flash, it occurred to her that this was the reason Tamaki had warned the club members about kissing their clients—the difference between titillating them and leading them on when they had no intention of actually pursuing them. Drunk or sober, Haruhi had no intention of being with Kohei because, like Naoko said, he was nice enough, but there was something wanting.

Naoko nodded slowly at her friend's admission. "Now rate your dance with Morinozuka, same scale."

Haruhi thought of Takashi's hands on her hips, his breath in her hair, his pelvis moving with hers. She bit her lip without realizing it.

"It's not the same thing," she stammered.

"In this case, it kind of is. I know it's scary to admit after all these years that you're into him, but—"

"I'm not scared, I'm not 'into' Takashi, and that's the end of this." Haruhi stared defiantly back at her instigator. "I think I'm ready to go home now."

There was an inevitable showdown in the middle of the pristine white-tiled floor, so fierce a tumbleweed or two might have rolled past. Naoko's lips, still stained deep red, pursed and her eyes narrowed to slits. "Fair enough. I promised I'd leave with you when you wanted, but just so you know, it's not so much 'leaving' as it is 'running.'"

Haruhi narrowed her eyes to match her friend's. "Whatever gets me out of here faster."

On her way to the door, the attendant quietly offered her a mint and no judgment, and Haruhi promised herself to use all of her remaining faculties to return to tip her generously on their way out.

With a gentle push, the restroom door eased open, and an urgent beat bullied its way in to Haruhi's once-safe place, quickening her heart and clouding her mind. She left behind the stark white and plunged headlong into the throbbing blackness, so thick she could almost feel its velvety folds.

Ahead of her, Kohei leaned awkwardly against the bar until he noticed Haruhi and straightened. Several feet away, beside him, Takashi stood with a stony look on his face, revealing nothing. At the sight of him—his tan forearms tensing across his chest in response to the natural rhythm of her hips—her teeth pulverized the mint, her mouth flooding with an intense chill followed by an intense heat.

From behind them, Kenichi's impish grin appeared before she even noticed the rest of him, a Cheshire cat in a forest of bodies. She couldn't tell before, but he was at least five inches taller than Kohei, and as he snuck up behind him, he fastened his hands on Kohei's shoulders and squeezed enough to startle the man.

"What are we all staring at?" he asked until his eyes landed on Haruhi. His smile only widened. "Oh, Fujioka, here you are. I was hoping I could beg you for that dance now that you're no longer occupied."

Haruhi's jaw slackened. She was barbequing her dress as soon as she got back to her apartment. "No, I'm going home."

Naoko attempted a touch more diplomacy when she saw the stunned looks on three very different faces. "Fujioka's not feeling particularly well, boys. Resign yourselves to another beer, an inferior partner, and enjoy what's left of your night."

Kenichi screwed up his pretty face in a tight grimace and sulked against the bar. "I'll need more than one beer for that."

Kohei was decidedly more concerned for her well-being. He sidled up along Haruhi, his earnest, warm brown eyes sending a shiver down her spine—of guilt. "Do you mind if I walk you to the train station?"

"I'll be fine."

"No, yeah, I'm sure," he stumbled. "All the same, I'd like to join."

After a long moment, Haruhi gave a brief nod of consent.

"Yamanaka, would you do me a favor and get our things before we go?" Naoko asked, and he took off immediately upstairs.

Even though her back was now to him, Haruhi could tell Takashi's eyes never wavered from her. With no one else to distract her, she could feel their cold fire roving down her neck and over her shoulders.

"I should come," he said.

Another shudder, this one undeniably pleasurable.

Though the music was loud and Naoko was growling quietly, a dip in the melody allowed Haruhi a moment to catch the terse dialogue behind her. She turned her head to find the young woman giving Takashi the same death stare she had given Haruhi which had started this whole fiasco a few days ago, and Haruhi knew the goliath would have no choice but comply without another word.

"Cool your jets, Tarzan. You have unfinished business with Miyagawa, so why don't you take care of that before you swoop in and make a bigger mess out of things."

After another long moment, he inhaled reluctantly and followed in Kohei's direction. He stopped alongside Haruhi, shoulder to shoulder, and together they stared straight ahead, watching other couples sharing their own moments both ephemeral and momentous.

"Feel better, Haruhi," he said without so much as turning his head to her. "And thank you for the dance."

"Good night, Takashi," she returned coolly.

"Mm."

He strolled forward, never looking back, and the crowd swallowed him up, leaving Haruhi alone against a surging tide of bodies contorting like a Dali painting. How had she ended up here? Only a few short moments in time separated her from the height of passion she had never experienced before to the valley of mediocrity she now wallowed in. She could blame it on the booze, but she'd had enough lies for one night.

Naoko placed a hand on her shoulder, startling her out of her trance. She gestured toward Kohei, who was waiting by the exit with their bags and coats, and added softly, "Ready to go?"

The three of them walked slowly toward the station, both Naoko and Kohei assuming Haruhi needed to take it easy, but it turned out that the fresh air was restorative. No longer laced with the heady musk of perfume and pheromones, it was easier to see the world as it really was—exactly the same as she had left it only a few hours ago. Everything was in the exact same place following the same predictable patterns. When the 11:58 train arrived to whisk her back home to her little honeycomb, she would be the same One-Magnet Haruhi she had been yesterday.

Wouldn't she?

On the platform, Naoko waited at the end, craning her head down the line to see if the train was still running on time, which left Kohei wringing his hands beside Haruhi.

"Fujioka."

She winced. She feared the next words out of his mouth, feared the request for another kiss that this time, in good conscience, she would have to deny.

His eyes were clear but evasive as they roved the cement for some sort of reprieve from the awkwardness embracing them. And yet, with a surge of bravery, his hands snatched a hold of hers, cold and clammy with expectation.

"I know that I'm not the one for you, that much is clear after tonight, but I want you to know that, for me, our kiss is something that I will treasure for the rest of my life. For one moment, you gave me the gift of yourself, and a guy like me can never ask for anything more than that." Finally, he met her eyes, sincerity greeting surprise, and he added gently, "Thank you for letting me live an untouchable dream."

A long pause. The hum of trucks in the distance. The shuffle of footsteps over pavement. The hitch of her breath.

"Fujioka, you okay?" he asked, a hand on her shoulder.

Suddenly, Haruhi burst into tears accompanied by loud sloppy sobs that racked her body. Kohei's jaw dropped, and he was about to call for reinforcements when she extricated one hand from his and lightly slapped his face a few times.

"The one for you is out there waiting," she strangled out between breathless gasps.

From across the station, Naoko bolted back. "Did you break Fujioka!"

"I have- I don't know what's going on!" he fumbled.

Though her cheeks were peppered with tears, Haruhi managed a smile that she thought looked appreciative though it looked more deranged.

Naoko jerked back in surprise.

"Oh man, this is worse than I thought. Thanks for accompanying us to the train, Yamanaka, I'll make sure she gets home safely. We'll see you Monday," she shouted as he eased down the platform steps, his wary gaze never lifting from the hysterical drunk sniffling on the platform.

From her burrow in Naoko's shoulder, Haruhi sobbed after him, "I had fun dancing with you and kissing you!" She immediately looked up at Naoko under lidded eyes and whispered, "No, I didn't."

"I know, honey. Lord, how did you get drunker with less booze in you? Your tears are ninety proof."

More sobs followed by more tears. "I'm a mess!"

Naoko put a tender hand on her friend's head and soothed her hair down. "A hot mess, remember, sweetie? Don't worry, you'll be back home before you know it, and you can forget everything tomorrow."

But Haruhi didn't.


End file.
